


Ghost Note

by odoridango



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Development, Gen, He's a little better in this one though, Musician!Kageyama, Platonic Relationships, Preslash if you squint, Tsukishima Kei is Bad at Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 13:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8670037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odoridango/pseuds/odoridango
Summary: When Tsukishima shares the link to one of his favorite artists with Yamaguchi, he ends up having to come to terms with some conversations and interactions he really could have gone without.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of reading some Tsukishima-centric fic and some cool music...but I hear it's also tsukkikage week so hooray for coincidences! Not like I wasn't in tsukkikage hell before anyway, though I think of this piece more in platonic/developing relationship terms. I'm pretty sure this is the first time I've written Tsukki as well, so welcoming any feedback on that. Hope you enjoy this lil piece!

People lie. Music does not.

Music is made by people, but it’s different – it’s made with intent, with a goal in mind, and sometimes it’s about somebody else’s journey. Music, more often than not, is expressive and honest.

Kei will listen to anything, regardless of genre. When he walks to school, around town, to visit the market for his mother, he unconsciously times his steps to the rhythm of whatever song pumps through his earphones. It makes him feel safe, cocooned, and shielded from all sorts of useless politesse, of going through the motions, having to pretend to be happy and polite at seeing people he barely knows, or having to strike up stilted conversation. Sometimes, even when he talks to Tadashi, he keeps his music on low to soothe his own ruffled feathers. Tadashi understands.

He doesn’t go to lengths to find music, just follows a couple different channels and online magazines, and lets the music come to him. He takes a smidgen of pride in the brilliant, untold artists that he finds on his own, the ones that leave his heart pounding, torso bent over his laptop with hands clutching his earphones, as if it would help him understand better how people can compose, can play, things like this, how they can lay their hearts out on a grid of five lines, notes drip-dripping from their chests, heartbeat-BPM sped up to unhealthy levels.

On a schoolnight, he finds KaTo’s page on SoundCloud. Stumbled upon, is probably more accurate. They’ve only got a couple followers, and have listed no personal information whatsoever, only that they’re somewhere in Miyagi, Japan.   

A single acoustic guitar, weaving some of the most atmospheric, improbable melodies Kei has ever heard. Every measure and musical phrase is neatly jam-packed with notes, played at a blistering pace with barely any static. If music is an expression of the heart, then surely, KaTo’s must be overflowing, full of things to say.

Kei is spellbound, and listens to KaTo’s demos at least once every day for two weeks. It frustrates him, trying to pinpoint what it is about KaTo’s music that affects him so much. Even in the clean-picked notes there is something raw and pure, something that strikes a chord with Kei’s cynical nature, something that almost makes him feel hopeful, and has him arriving at morning practice the most calm he’s ever been.

“Did something good happen, Tsukki?” Tadashi asks him on their way home, between mouthfuls of steaming meat bun. “It feels like you’ve been happier lately.”

“Not really,” Kei mumbles. “I just found some new music, that’s all.” He takes a tiny bite of his own mushroom bun, wincing from the heat, but savoring the hearty flavor that spreads on his tongue. Coach Ukai always welcomes them into Sakanoshita even when he’s just spent the last hour yelling at them through practice, and despite his own bluster he’s said once that he likes that they enjoy visiting the shop so much. His mother, he had said with a confidential air, leaning over the counter, makes the meat and vegetable buns herself every morning. None of that frozen, premade stuff. He’s tried making them himself once or twice, but hasn’t gotten the hang of it yet.

“It must be some good music if it makes you this happy,” Tadashi says, grinning. Tadashi has always been kind. A good person. He stands straighter now, is more forthright. There are times when Kei thinks he doesn’t recognize him anymore, that the Tadashi he used to know is beginning to move out of his reach. He feels like he’s being left behind. But what he feels and what he knows are two different things. Tadashi wouldn’t do that. Tadashi has always been good, better than he deserves. And he’s proud of who Tadashi is now, even though he doesn’t understand why exactly he might feel that way – after all, Tadashi’s growth is due to his own efforts, and has very little to do with Kei. Yet there’s still something in him that warms when he sees Tadashi beginning to understand his worth, gaining his confidence. Perhaps that’s what Tadashi feels too, in times like this.

“….I can send it to you if you want,” Kei says, taking another nonchalant bite of his mushroom bun, ignoring his cold palms.

Tadashi blinks at him, and smiles. “I’d like that.”

But back at home, Kei can’t bring himself to push the send button on his email, the link to KaTo’s page highlighted in cheerful, electric blue. It’s just sharing music. With Tadashi, his friend. Music that makes him feel good, makes him feel connected in a way he hasn’t quite felt in years, that makes him feel like he could get a little closer to all his little wriggling fears and anxieties, sit by them and take the time to think them through and accept them, a chore and burden he’s never been able to bring himself to do. It’s just music. It’s just something that any group of friends would do at any given moment.

He forces himself to send the link, ignoring the queasiness that settles in his chest.

“Tsukki, what you sent me was brilliant!” Tadashi says the next day, bouncing up to him before warm-ups. “I didn’t even think that guitars could do things like that!”

“Ooh, Yamaguchi what are you talking about?” exclaims Hinata, jumping up all around them, as easily attracted by commotion as ever. “What’s going on?”

“Tsukki sent me this really awesome music link yesterday!” Tadashi says. “It was super cool! I can send it to you if you want to give it a listen.”

Kei swallows the betrayal that bubbles in his stomach. He sent the link to Tadashi, and Tadashi can do whatever he wants with it, that’s what sharing is. KaTo’s music isn’t his, and it’s available for anyone to find on the internet anyway. He’s being stupid, feeling like this, like someone’s barged in on him and caught him flat-footed. He’s shared music with Tadashi before, this should be no different.

“Hmmm, I don’t listen to much music, but sure! If Stingyshima likes it enough to share it must be something special!” Hinata says, laughing obnoxiously. “Ooh, but send it to Kageyama too! He doesn’t talk about it ever because he’s a stick in the mud, but he has all these weird T-shirts and every time I try to figure out where they’re from all I get are weirdo bands.”

“I’ll find you guys at lunch then,” Tadashi promises, patently ignoring the loud tsking noise that Kei makes.

Sawamura calls them together for warm-ups, and when they go into partner stretching, Kei takes one look at Tadashi’s face and braces himself for another tiring discussion.

“You should talk to Hinata and Kageyama more,” Tadashi murmurs as they struggle to link their hands together, “They’re our teammates. And wouldn’t it be nice if you ended up having someone to talk to about the things you like?”

“Maybe when Hinata actually gains a vocabulary,” Kei replies in a strained deadpan, grasping Tadashi’s hands, feeling the stretch in his arms, back, and legs. “And don’t I talk to you about the things I like?”

Tadashi actually sighs at him, like he’s hopeless. “I mean _mutual interests_ , Tsukki. You know I’m happy that we can talk about things you like and things I like at any time, but we don’t always like the same things. It’s good if someone can meet you passion for passion, right?”

“I guess,” Kei mutters. He switches positions, spreading his legs as far as they can go and lurching his arms toward the floor in the middle. Tadashi is always so nice and mature. He’s infuriatingly _cool_. Maybe Kei really is being left behind.

“Come with me during lunch,” Tadashi says, dropping his forearms on Kei’s shoulders. He smiles at Kei convincingly in the way that makes his freckles look like they’re orbiting his dimples like little planets. “It’ll be fun to have us all eat together. I’ll ask Yachi-san, too.”

“It’s not like you’ll let me say no,” Kei grouses, and grunts when Tadashi shoves him down further against the floor.

“That’s right,” Tadashi says sweetly. And the thing with Tadashi is that he never, ever forgets it when he makes plans with someone, he always keeps to his word. It’s what makes him such a good friend, and also an annoying one.

Kei doesn’t mind Yachi at all, because he knows that’s she’s just a little nervous and anxious, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders and she can keep the idiot duo in check. He’s seen the posters she’s designed for the club, and her succinct notes on the things that Shimizu-san teaches her. Not to mention, he’s grateful that she’s on tutor duty with him – he can’t imagine handling both Hinata and Kageyama during exam season all by himself, while keeping on top of his own studies.

But watching Tadashi offering each half of the idiot duo an earbud, hyperaware of the tension in his hands as he fiddles with his fingers,  Kei wonders if either of them can even understand or appreciate KaTo’s music. Mutual interests, Tadashi had said. Passion for passion. Well, Hinata and Kageyama both meet each other in their passion for volleyball, mostly because they’re both simple-minded single-celled organisms, but in music? And with Kei?

“Uwaah!” Hinata shouts, “It’s so fast!”

“Hush, stupid!” Kageyama whisper-shouts, elbowing his partner. He presses the earbud tightly to his ear, brow furrowed and eyes focused. Hinata glares back, but Kageyama, surprisingly, looks too engrossed to notice.

“Play it again. Please,” Kageyama asks Tadashi, sounding distracted. Kei is tempted to open his mouth to say something scathing, but his curiosity towards Kageyama’s odd reaction is enough to keep him quiet for now.

“What did you think, Yamayama-kun?” Hinata teases, as Tadashi passes the earbuds to Yachi, “You liked it didn’t you? That’s why you asked Yamaguchi to play it again!”

“It wasn’t bad,” Kageyama mumbles, before stuffing his face full of rice and ignoring Hinata’s whines and yells at him to explain. His face is still fixed in that puzzling scowl, mouth tipped to the side in an almost thoughtful-looking frown. Kei wants to pester him more if only to satisfy his own curiosity towards Kageyama’s uncharacteristic evasiveness, but Yachi’s excited stuttering draws him away, and his fingers fall back to his lunch. Tadashi has shared music close to Kei’s heart, there have been no bad reactions or comments about Kei, nothing shocking or groundbreaking has happened, and the world continues to turn.

It’s dusk when things change. Kei is watching the yellow-pink-purple-blue of sunset as he waits for Tadashi to finish changing in the locker room, when Kageyama walks up to stand quietly next to him, several feet away. He’s silent for a couple minutes, fiddling with his scarf, obviously searching for words.

“The songs that Yamaguchi played us at lunch…” he says finally, “…where did you find them?”

Kei deigns to glance at him dismissively. “I heard you were bad with technology but I didn’t think you were this bad. Didn’t you see the app that Yamaguchi opened?”

“Tch. That’s not what I meant,” Kageyama growls, obviously holding back on the insults for the sake of getting answers. “I mean, how did you find that…KaTo?”

“On the internet,” Kei answers dryly. Mustering his patience, Kei sighs and turns toward Kageyama’s way. Of all people to be discussing this with, why Kageyama? “Why didn’t you just admit that you liked it at lunch? It’s not like the name is hard to remember—“

“It’s not…a matter of, of liking it or whatever!” Kageyama blusters loudly, hands rigid by his side in imitation of all the times Kei has seen him approach their senpai for their feedback on his setting, or when he asks Sugawara for help. But why this reaction? Why approach him now? Why not just be blunt and straightforward like always?

“It’s not a matter of liking it,” Kageyama repeats again, more quietly. “It’s more a matter…of how you even found it.”

It clicks. KaTo. Spelled in English letters, for the romanized version of a name.

“You’re kidding me,” Kei says, eyes wide. All these weeks, the past month, the apprehension of sharing it with Yamaguchi and the rest of their teammates, like sharing a secret, like giving them a key, and this stupid, stupid boy in front of him, the tyrant King, so wholly and immovably devoted to volleyball, so willing to put all his eggs in a basket and push until all of them smash to the ground in a sticky mess—

“I’m not,” Kageyama says, really, actually beginning to redden over the nose, over the cheeks, but still meeting Kei’s incredulous gaze. “I…didn’t think anyone would find it. Or know. So I didn’t say anything at lunch.”

There’s static roaring in Kei’s ears. He doesn’t know how he feels. Scared? Angry? Surprised? People lie and music does not, but Kageyama doesn’t do deception because he’s not capable of it. The more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense, and the more indignant he gets. Feeling hopeful, edging toward optimism, because of Kageyama? Because of music that Kageyama is actually capable of producing?

“Prove it,” Kei says, before he can stop himself. He needs to see, he needs to know. Now that the name has a face, has a person that _he knows_ , behind it – does he feel the same? Does he still feel connected?

Kageyama scowls yet again, this one much more familiar. “Why should I,” he retorts.

“I already know, don’t I? Why not?” Kei croons mockingly, tilting his head to emphasize their height differential. He can feel his heart thundering away in his chest. “But I suppose you don’t really need to know how I found your page. And I could always drop Hinata a little hint, if it’s all the same to you.”

Kageyama scowls even harder. “Fine, I get it. Asshole,” he says, a growl underlying his words. “Are we going to do this right now?”

“Don’t you know?” Kei asks, pulling out his cellphone and sending Tadashi a quick text, “Apparently you have a test in two days, and you’re very bad at history. Just so you know, that second part’s not a lie.”

“Shut up and walk,” Kageyama grumbles back, squinting at his own cell phone screen as he slowly enters his own message. Distantly, an offended squawk rises from the direction of the locker rooms. “You’re lucky Yamaguchi’s nice.”

Kei doesn’t need Kageyama to tell him that, so he just doesn’t answer. “And where am I walking?” Kei asks as they reach the school gate.

“We’re going to my place,” Kageyama says, and takes a right.

The streetlights flicker on as they go, the sky darkening to a deep blue, almost black, just lightly edged with faint pinks and purples. Kageyama leads the way, hands crammed into his pockets, and occasionally the tread of his sneakers scrapes against the asphalt as he walks. Kei can’t see his face, and the silence and growing dark unnerves him, broken only by the sound of their footsteps and the yolk-yellow puddles of light that flood them from above, washing out the silken black of Kageyama’s hair and casting long shadows. He resists the urge to put on his headphones, to wrap himself up quiet and safe. The point is not to be safe, not to be quiet. That’s why he’s walking with Kageyama now, step by step.

Lengthening his stride so they walk side by side more or less, Kei asks grudgingly, “When did you start?”

Kageyama looks at him briefly, colors bleached by another eggy spotlight. “What do you mean?” he says, voice gruff. “Do you mean when I started uploading stuff to the page?”

“No, when did you start playing,” Kei says.

Kageyama peers at him for a couple seconds before turning his eyes back to the road, and guiding them onto another small road. “I’ve been playing a long time,” he says, kicking a small pebble. “A couple years. Why all these questions, anyway? Why this whole—thing?“ He doesn’t look at Kei once.

“Because I didn’t expect it from you,” Kei says, more honestly and calmly than he himself expected. “It doesn’t fit your pattern.”

“What the hell does that mean,” Kageyama grumbles, turning down another street.

“You’re a single-minded volleyball idiot,” Kei says, bringing his hands together, tracing the edges of his nails and ignoring Kageyama’s fearsome frown. Being impatient and sarcastic won’t get him the answers he wants, and Kageyama responds best to honesty. “KaTo’s music…I want to see it for myself. That you aren’t who I thought you were.”

As he heads for the apartment complex across the street, Kageyama turns his frown towards Kei. “You’re weird,” he says, seemingly ignoring, or unaware, of the subtle challenge Kei was trying to make.

Kageyama’s apartment is on the third floor, and he flicks quickly through a faded Doraemon keyring before settling on a silver key with awfully jagged teeth. The door swings open quietly to a completely dark room.

“I’m home,” Kageyama says under his voice, feeling along the wall until the lights flicker on. “Leave your shoes,” he tells Kei curtly, as he slips out of his own sneakers and sets them to the side of the small entranceway, where a small shoe rack already decorates the space. Silently, he leads Kei past the kitchen and living room space, heading down the hall.

He lights the way as they walk, turning on strategically placed floorlamps. “Bathroom,” he says, tapping on a closed door as they pass. There’s calligraphy framed on the walls, another thing that Kei didn’t really expect. He spots photo frames glinting among the brushwork, but Kageyama gestures at him impatiently from where he stands in a lit doorway, one hand on the doorknob as if he were about to welcome Kei in.

The room, presumably Kageyama’s, is bare, spartan, everything in off-shades of blue: eggshell blue carpet, sky-blue curtains with a broad navy stripe along the bottom edge, and a deep, slate bedspread. The bed takes up most of the space, low to the ground with embedded drawers and a built-in end-table at the head, with only a clock and a small netsuke statue resting there. Manga and volleyball magazines are stacked at the foot of the bed, and a closet is built into the left wall. There’s a chair and desk to the right, the desk wiped clean save for two notebooks and a pen neatly stacked to one corner, with a couple dumbbells and weights piled on the floor next to it.

Kei stands there dumbly as Kageyama sets down his schoolbag and gym duffel down near his weights, and goes rifling in his closet. He’s never seen a room so blank. Sure, there’s what looks to be a chart of volleyball plays pinned up on the wall, and a couple awards hanging above an improvised coat rack made up of hooks hammered into a wooden beam, but Kei expected a few posters at least, or something like the line of dinosaurs he keeps above his own bed, or the chaotic patterning of Tadashi’s room. In contrast to the cosy-looking family space Kei glimpsed on their way in, Kageyama’s room looks like someone started moving in, but stopped halfway because they didn’t expect to stay long.

“Sit down,” Kageyama says, chucks a somewhat dusty floor cushion in Kei’s general direction. “I’ll get tea.”

Kei bites back a comment about kingly behavior and hosting etiquette, but can’t help but click his tongue in irritation. He sets down his things and dusts off the cushion, settling on it gingerly, cross-legged. With Kageyama out of the room, he takes his time looking over every nook and cranny. It’s unbelievably neat. Kageyama is the meticulous type, so it isn’t so surprising, but it just reminds Kei of the reason why he’s here – how can a person like this, so simple, with so few social graces, with a single hobby cultivated almost to the point of obsession – how can someone like Kageyama make music as complex, as beautiful as that? Raw, pure, hopeful – while Kei can understand in an abstract way how those things might also describe his teammate, he can’t make the connection. He can’t make it until he sees.

He lets out a small huff. Passion for passion. Well if it’s passionate loathing and frustration, he and Kageyama might have it in spades.

Kageyama returns with a guitar case slung over his shoulder, a white teapot, two cups, two plates, and a plated block of youkan neatly arranged atop a tray carefully balanced with two hands. He doesn’t bother getting a cushion for himself, just snaps out the two little feet from the bottom of the tray, settling it onto the carpeted floor with a look of concentration.

“We don’t use cream or sugar,” he says as he sets out a cup and saucer, eyeing Kei with a scowl like he’s daring him to ask for some.

“It’s green tea,” Kei replies dryly, watching Kageyama as he pours a clean, steady stream of tea into his cup. “I think I’ll survive.”

Kageyama just mumbles to himself as he cuts the youkan into slices. As Kei sips at his tea, he looks for the teabag hanging out of the teapot. He can’t find one, and the taste of sencha is thick on his tongue. When Kageyama offers him a youkan slice, little wooden pick settled to the side, Kei just accepts it with a nod.

“How did you find the page?” Kageyama says, sipping at his own cup, gaze direct and laser-focused, at least until he averts it. “My page.”

“Would you believe me if I told you it was on accident?” Kei retorts, and tries the youkan. He regrets it; the youkan is delicious, rich with the taste of red bean paste with smooth, toothsome bits of chestnut. “My browser lagged and I mistyped my original search terms.”

Kageyama doesn’t frown or glare, his mouth just settles into a weird, uncertain line that Kei’s never seen on him before. “No…I think I believe you. I didn’t add tags or anything. I didn’t really…I didn’t really intend for anyone to find it.” He puts a quick bit of youkan into his mouth like he can wash away the taste of the words.

“It’s the internet, you know that much, right?” Kei asks, raising an eyebrow, warming his hands with his cup. “And it’s a public space. Someone, even if just a spam account, is bound to see it or find it.”

“I know that,” Kageyama says, quietly.

“If you did, then why did you post anything at all?”

Kageyama pauses for a moment, like he’s only just remembered who he’s talking to, staring at Kei like he’s searching for something. “For practice,” he says, and drags his guitar case towards him, unzipping it. “For myself. So it would be more official. A record, or something.”

Slender fingers wander over the strings, absent-mindedly plucking several notes. Kageyama’s fingers are in good condition, given that Kei has never seen him wrap them. Another sign of his meticulous nature. He takes care of the things he thinks are important, and the guitar too, seems well kept, barely needing any tuning, by the looks of it.

“What are you always listening to anyway?” Kageyama asks, voice hushed, twisting a silver tuning peg.

“Anything,” Kei says shortly, and drinks more tea, watches Kageyama fix some sort of clamp onto the strings, and start on another cascading, looping cycle of notes.

“Anything…” Kageyama says in an echo, and works his sparse notes into a sudden strum that seems to crack open their quiet conversation.

It’s the same song that Kei’s heard pumping in his earphones for weeks, but Kageyama is playing it right in front of him with a familiar look of concentration on his face. Both his hands are up on the fretboard, fingers flicking in a blur before he hits the strings once, twice, for a resonant, bell-like tone that rises and shimmers in the air. A burst of strums breaks the rhythm as Kageyama plucks another quick set of notes, his hands flying back up to the fretboard, quick and sure, to follow the set with a sweet tremolo sequence.

Like every other time Kei has played KaTo’s music, he is spellbound. But there is something even more magical about watching it happen, watching a small grin edge onto Kageyama’s face as he moves fluidly from one section of the song to the next with nimble fingers, the way he strikes the strings with his whole body, relishing the sounds that he makes, the music that he’s written. He bobs his head along with the rhythm, sometimes rocks his body into the swing of the tune, and as he improvises little bridges between his demos to link them all into one song, Kei closes his eyes, wraps his hands around his cooling tea and feels the same raw, determined, hopefulness that he did when he first stumbled onto KaTo’s page. He’s a rational person, and given this evidence he really can’t refute it anymore: Kageyama and KaTo are one and the same.

People lie, but Kei knows very well that Kageyama does not. No matter how infuriating his confidence is, no matter his spectacular tone-deaf ways in goading others through blunt comments, there isn’t a speck of honest malice in the genius setter. And Kei knows that music can be just as honest, maybe even more so. Perhaps this is what Kageyama feels, being part of the team in a way he clearly wasn’t before, being accepted by their senpai, encouraged and advised to grow. Perhaps this is what he and Hinata see on the court, joy and hope, and the promise of glory. Something immeasurably bright, something that Kei can’t see, when the volleyball club is just that, a club. Or maybe it’s something completely unrelated to volleyball, something beyond what Kei perceives of him.

But damn it all if listening to Kageyama, to the way he taps out rivers of melodies with abandon, or watching him strike those bell-like chords in triumph, doesn’t make Kei want to know that sort of feeling too. It’s why Kageyama’s stupid. It’s why he’s a volleyball idiot. And it’s why he’ll always be better than Kei.

When Kageyama finishes pulling off the last note of his song set, he doesn’t let it fade. He rests his palm very, very gently against the strings, muting the note until it dies, and glances up at Kei, cautiously, mouth pinched.

“Well?” he says.

And Kei claps, unable to help the dry chuckle that slips from him. Kageyama stares at him with wide eyes, mouth slightly parted.

“You know, I really liked KaTo’s songs,” Kei says, once he stops his applause. Admitting it doesn’t feel like losing. “And yours aren’t bad either, Kageyama.”

Music is honest, and maybe people can be too. Paradigm shift, because all the things that made KaTo special, made them cherished and endearing, belong to Kageyama too. And Kageyama isn’t who Kei thought he was – he is probably, very likely, much, much more.

And Kageyama, he’s doing that weird wobbly thing with his mouth like he doesn’t know if he should smile, shoulders rising up to his reddening ears.

“Thanks?” he says, settling the guitar down in his lap.

“What’s with that? Don’t you know how to take a compliment?” Kei says with a slight drawl, and takes another bite of youkan. A little reward, maybe.

“Not one from you!” Kageyama protests, ears reddening a little. “It’s weird! You’ve never said anything nice like that, usually you’re all…you’re all, not direct about it! You always say something insulting first!”

“Maybe you just have to get used to it,” Kei says slyly, gives a cool little grin, and savors the silence of Kageyama’s shock.

“…I don’t get you,” Kageyama mumbles resignedly, and sets his guitar aside to have at the tea and snacks.

Kei watches Kageyama carefully slice off a small portion of the youkan and pop it in his mouth. Despite everything, Kageyama was the one to approach him, at the risk at Kei finding out. And as much as Kei would love to deny it, Kageyama isn’t entirely lacking in brains – if anything, he probably expected that Kei would come to the conclusion that he did. So why ask him about it at all? Why not keep it a secret?

Mutual interest. That’s what Tadashi said. Meeting one for one.

Kei digs his phone out of his gym bag. “Never heard a style or technique quite like yours before,” he says, unplugging his earphones and shuffling a little closer, “But the atmosphere reminds me of a couple other bands.”

Kageyama blinks, brow only slightly furrowed, but he moves to settle cautiously near Kei anyway, careful to maintain a couple inches distance. It’s good enough, because he says, “Which ones?”, and stays there, next to Kei. Kageyama, still the same, but also different – annoying and a little dense, but honest in music and everything else, meticulous in the way that means he’s consistent and tenacious, but still willing to take risks to say what he needs to say, express himself as much as he can. And in this space, this seeming cocoon, where Kei has felt that energy for himself, that raw expression of hope and need, he’ll shore himself up and take a risk too.

**Author's Note:**

> Now that you've reached the end, please check out [this very cool amazeballs video of Nakagawa Daijiro](https://www.facebook.com/beckingfamahas/videos/965062663598528/?pnref=story) doing some very Cool Guitar Things, which played a huge role in this fic. Kageyama's performance is partially based off of the passage in the beginning. Thanks so much for reading!


End file.
